“Weamish spoke in much the same terms,” said Twango. “But he is dead! And his comrades are spared a melancholy task, since he dug, tended and decorated a fine grave.” Twango chuckled sadly. “Weamish must have felt the flutter of the black bird’s wings! Only two days ago I found him cleaning and ordering his grave, and setting all to rights!”

“Two days ago?” Cugel considered. “This was after he had found his scales.”

“True! He was a dedicated man! I trust that you, Cugel, as you live and work at Flutic, will be guided by his conduct!”

“I hope to do exactly that,” said Cugel.

“Now you may bury Weamish. His carrier is yonder in the shed. He built it himself and it is only fitting that you use it to convey his corpse to the grave.”

“That is a kind thought.” With no further words Cugel went to the shed and brought out the carrier: a table rolling on four wheels. Impelled, so it would seem, by a desire to beautify his handiwork, Weamish had attached a skirt of dark blue cloth to hang as a fringe below the top surface.

Cugel loaded Weamish’s body upon the carrier and rolled it out into the back garden. The carrier functioned well, although the top surface seemed insecurely attached to the frame. Odd, thought Cugel, when the vehicle must carry valuable cases of scales! Making an inspection, Cugel found that a peg secured the top surface to the frame. When he pulled away the peg, the top pivoted and would have spilled the corpse had he not been alert.

Cugel investigated the carrier in some detail, then wheeled the corpse to that secluded area north of the manse which Weamish had selected for his eternal rest.

Cugel took stock of the surroundings. A bank of myrhadion trees dangled long festoons of purple blossoms over the grave. Gaps in the foliage allowed a view along the beach and over the sea. To the left a slope grown over with bitterbush and syrinx descended to the pond of black slime.

Already Yelleg and Malser were at work. Hunching and shuddering to the chill, they dived from a platform into the slime. Pulling themselves as deep as possible by means of weights and ropes, they groped for scales, and at last emerged panting and gasping and dripping black ooze.

Cugel gave his head a shake of distaste, then uttered a sharp exclamation as something stung his right buttock. Jerking about he discovered Gark watching from under the broad leaf of a madder plant. He carried a small contrivance by which he could launch pebbles, and which he had evidently used upon Cugel. Gark adjusted the bill of his red cap and hopped forward. “Work at speed, Cugel! There is much to be done!”

Cugel deigned no response. With all dignity he unloaded the corpse, and Gark took his leave.

Weamish indeed had maintained his grave with pride. The hole, five feet deep, had been dug square and true, although at the bottom and to the side the dirt seemed loose and friable. Cugel nodded with quiet satisfaction.

“Quite likely,” Cugel told himself. “Not at all unlikely.”

With spade in hand he jumped into the grave and prodded into the dirt. From the corner of his eye he noticed the approach of a small figure in a red cap. Gark had returned, hoping to catch Cugel unaware, and fair game for another skillfully aimed pebble. Cugel loaded the spade with dirt, swung it high, up and over, and heard a gratifying squawk of surprise.

Cugel climbed from the grave. Gark squatted at a little distance, shaking the dirt from his cap. “You are careless where you throw your dirt!”

Cugel, leaning on his spade, chuckled. “If you skulk through the bushes, how can I see you?”

“The responsibility is yours. It is my duty to inspect your work.”

“Jump down into the grave, where you may inspect at close range!”

Gark’s eyes bulged in outrage, and he gnashed the chitinous parts of his mouth. “Do you take me for a numbskull? Get on with your work! Twango will not pay good terces for idle hours of dreaming!”

“Gark, you are stern!” said Cugel. “Well, if I must, I must.” Without further ceremony he rolled Weamish into his grave, covered him over, and tamped down the mold.

So passed the morning. At noon Cugel made an excellent lunch of braised eel with ramp and turnips, a conserve of exotic fruits and a flask of white wine. Yelleg and Malser, lunching upon coarse bread and pickled acorns, watched sidelong in mingled surprise and envy.

During the late afternoon, Cugel went out to the pond to assist the divers as they finished work for the day. First Malser emerged from the pond, hands like claws, then Yelleg. Cugel flushed away the slime with water piped from a stream, then Yelleg and Malser went to a shed to change clothes, their skin shriveled and lavender from the cold. Since Cugel had neglected to build a fire, their complaints were curtailed only by the chattering of their teeth.

Cugel hastened to repair the lack, while the divers discussed the day’s work. Yelleg had gleaned three ‘ordinary’ scales from under a rock, while Malser, exploring a crevice, had discovered four of the same quality.

Yelleg told Cugel: “Now you may dive if you see fit, though the light fails fast.”

“This is the time Weamish dived,” said Malser. “He often used the hours of early morning, as well. But no matter what his exertions never did he neglect our warming fire.”

“It was an oversight on my part,” said Cugel. “I am not yet accustomed to the routine.”

Yelleg and Malser grumbled somewhat more, then went to the refectory, where they dined on boiled kelp. For his own meal, Cugel took first a tureen of hunter’s goulash, with morels and dumplings. For a second course, he selected a fine cut of roast mutton, with a piquant sauce, assorted side dishes, and a rich red wine; then, for dessert, he devoured a large dish of mungberry trifle.

Yelleg and Malser, on their way from the refectory, stopped to advise Cugel. “You are consuming meals of excellent quality, but the prices are inordinate! Your account with Twango will occupy your efforts for the rest of your life.”

Cugel only laughed and made an easy gesture. “Sit down, and allow me to repair my deficiencies of this afternoon. Gark! Two more goblets, another flask of wine and be quick about it!”

Yelleg and Malser willingly seated themselves. Cugel poured wine with a generous hand, and refilled his own goblet as well. He leaned comfortably back in his chair.

“Naturally,” said Cugel, “the possibility of exorbitant charges has occurred to me. Since I do not intend to pay, I care not a fig for expense!”

Both Yelleg and Malser murmured in surprise. “That is a remarkably bold attitude!”

“Not altogether. At any instant the sun may lurch into oblivion. At this time, were I to owe Twango ten thousand terces for a long series of excellent meals, my last thoughts would be happy ones!”

Both Yelleg and Malser were impressed by the logic of the concept, which had not previously occurred to them.

Yelleg mused: “Your point seems to be that if one’s debt to Twango hovers always at thirty or forty terces, it might as well be ten thousand!”

Malser said thoughtfully: “Twenty thousand, or even thirty thousand, would seem an even more worthy debt.”

“This is an ambition of truly great scope!” declared Yelleg. “As of this moment, I believe that I will try a good slice of that roast mutton!”

“And I as well!” said Malser. “Let Twango worry about the cost! Cugel, I drink to your health!”

Twango jumped from a nearby booth, where he had sat unseen. “I have heard the whole of this base conversation! Cugel, your concepts do you no credit! Gark! Gookin! In the future Cugel must be served only the Grade Five cuisine, similar to that formerly enjoyed by Weamish.”

Cugel only shrugged. “If necessary, I will pay my account.”

“That is good news!” said Twango. “And what will you use for terces?”

“I have my little secrets,” said Cugel. “I will tell you this much: I intend notable innovations in the scale-gathering process.”

Twango snorted incredulously. “Please perform these miracles in your spare time. Today you neglected to dust the relics; you neither waxed nor polished the parquetry. You failed to dig your grave, and you neglected to carry out the kitchen wastes.”

“Gark and Gookin must carry out the garbage,” said Cugel. “While I was still supervisor, I rearranged the work schedule.”

Gark and Gookin, on the high shelf, set up a protest.

“The schedule is as before,” said Twango. “Cugel, you must observe the regular routine.” He departed the room, leaving Cugel, Yelleg and Malser to finish their wine.

Before sunrise Cugel was awake and abroad in the back garden, where the air was damp and chill, and heavy with silence. Bottle-yew and larch imposed silhouettes in a ragged fringe around the mulberry-gray sky; mist lay in low ribbons across the pond.

Cugel went to the gardener’s shed, where he secured a stout spade. Somewhat to the side, under a lush growth of paunce-wort, he noticed an iron tub, or trough, ten feet long by three feet wide, built to a purpose not now in evidence. Cugel examined the trough with care, then went to the back of the garden. Under the myrhadion tree he started to dig that grave ordained by Twango.